


Bruises and a Black Eye

by shutterbug



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Assault, Black Eye, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Gen, Missing Scene, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 22:24:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21435685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutterbug/pseuds/shutterbug
Summary: How Tom actually got his black eye.Missing scene from S1E6, "Which Side Are You On"
Relationships: Siobhan "Shiv" Roy/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	Bruises and a Black Eye

Tom braced himself on the back of his chair as Greg left his office, all lumbering awkwardness. 

“The bad ones.” That’s how Greg--Greg the _ Egg_\--had put it. 

Yeah, the _ bad _ones. 

The fucking _ bad _ones, Greg. 

Jesus. 

_ He _ \--Tom--had only found out about this a week ago. That was like a _ decade _in rich-people-time, right? Right? Or was it a second? He didn’t fucking know. He’d been faking it ever since he got here. 

He tried to comfort the nervous boy from St. Paul, the boy who rode his bicycle for miles around mosquito-ridden lakes. Minnesota, the land of a thousand lakes, they said. The land of a thousand mosquitos, he countered. Clouds of them. Swooping through the air like migrating birds. 

But, even then, he’d held his breath and threw himself into those clouds of blood-sucking insects. And he’d circled that lake. He’d swatted at the bugs and pedaled, going ‘round and ‘round. Around that lake. _ His _ lake. His _ family_’s lake. At least that’s what he’d told himself. That lake had reflected years upon years of Fourth of July fireworks. It had been the subject of a scandalous controversy. A missing sorority girl from Concordia. 

She was never found. 

But it was his _ fuck_ing lake. Regardless of whether some blonde girl was buried in a watery grave at the bottom of it. 

He’d name it one day. Wambsgans Lake. Or Lake Wambsgans. He didn’t give a fuck. As long as Wambsgans was in the name. 

That first week after Bill’s unwelcome visit had stretched on interminably. Tom spent what felt like a _ life_time mulling over the dis_ast_er that was the reality of the cruise line. Rape. Assault. Drugs. Murder. Stories he didn’t really care to learn. Tales that belonged to people who were supposed to be _ beneath _him. 

As if he were some kind of Prince of the Sea. Duke of the Waves. King of the Brine. 

Jesus fucking _ Christ. _

He had told Greg. Against all his instincts of self-preservation and survival, he had told Greg, of all people--of all _ people_\--everything. All of it. The whole kit and caboodle. 

He’d handed over the _ files. _ The physical _ evidence. _

_ Fuck. _

Tom slapped his palms against his forehead. A self-flagellation of sorts. 

He slapped, slapped, _ slapped. _Then stood up, tall and straight. 

Okay. Okay. 

Okay. 

It was okay. 

He’d leave the office. He’d leave the office as usual. Just walk out. Walk out and hail a cab. No big deal. No big deal, as if he owned the place, all of New York Fucking City. No big deal. 

Tom inhaled deeply. He filled his lungs with the thick, humid air of mid-town New York. Of the underground subway steam. _ Stench. _ The urine and sweat of pop-up drummers and acappella ensembles. All-black male groups crooning “(Sittin’ On) the Dock of the Bay” until the last of the commuters disappeared. Quarters and nickels landing with _ tinks _ and _ plunks _into the bottoms of their hats until seven forty-five pee-em. 

With a foggy head, Tom gripped the handle of his briefcase with a too-tight fist. He sat in the back of a company car. No cab. No subway car. No. A company car, because he deserved one, damn it. 

When he exhaled, a weak, wobbly sound came out. 

The made-up image of a woman filled his head, pinned against a wall below deck. Her heels slipping on the carpet-less floor as she tried to slip away from her attacker. 

Fuck. 

Another woman now, sinking to her knees in front of an old man in a wood-paneled office. His dick wasn’t quite hard, but he’d make her suck him off whether he was hard or not. 

_ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _

Tom tumbled out of the car two blocks from his apartment. His and Shiv’s. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” he shouted out the driver. “I’ll walk the rest.” 

With a nod, the driver threw the car into _ drive _ and took off. The tires actually _ squealed_. 

Tom stood there and watched until the car disappeared around the corner, into the grid of New York. Back into the hell from whence it came. Or heaven. It depended on the day. 

And even though he had escaped the office, the day still had a haze of hell to it. When he started his slow walk to the apartment, he felt loaded down. Like he had been buried under a pile of shit he’d never asked for. 

Then he gasped for air as he was hauled into an alley. Someone--no, multiple someones--gripped him by the arms and pulled them back, wrenched one of his arms up and behind him and made him bend over. Collapse to the grimy, wet pavement. His knees hit the ground with a force that almost made him upchuck. He could barely see anything, but one figure loomed in front of him, like some shadowy cartoon villain. 

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be _ fuck_ing happening. Not to him. He had a fucking penthouse. 

But the strangled shout that erupted from his mouth told him that yes, yes, this was happening. A hard-toed boot stabbed him in the stomach. Yes, this was happening. 

He didn’t have all that much hair to grab, but one of the someones managed and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. Making him vulnerable. 

He hated that he wanted to call for Shiv. For Shiv--for her daddy--to save him. 

He tried to be a man. “What do you want?” he asked. “I’m a very”--he swallowed--“powerful man. My wallet’s in my pocket. Take it.” 

Whoever it was that had him by the hair jerked his head backwards and hissed, “We don’t want your fucking money. We want our sister back, you asswipe.” 

And then the beating started. Not just a boot to the stomach, no. A pointed toe to the balls, which stole his breath immediately. He gasped, trying as hard as he could to draw air into his lungs. Failing. Failing. And failing again, when a fist connected with his face like a bag full of batteries. The punch knocked him over, and he yelled as a handful of hair was ripped from his head and he flopped on the cracked asphalt like a dead fish. 

“She fucking _ died _ on one of your fucking _ boats._” 

“You don’t deserve to live, you fucking pig.” 

He tried to curl up like a pill bug, but one man pulled at his ankles while another grabbed his elbows. They drew him back, opened him up--fucking overpowered him. He tried to lean into his fish-like position and thrash. Kick his feet. Wriggle. Squirm. But nothing worked. Nothing loosened their hold on him. And, with his chest heaving and his blood pumping so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear anything else, he surrendered to their dick-kicks, their face-punches, their spine-stomps. After a while, he stopped screaming. 

He was just relieved, by the end of it, that he hadn’t lost any teeth. 

Even after they disappeared into the New York night, Tom laid on the ground for a few minutes. He thought of his lake. He thought of its cattails and crickets. He thought of the sunsets that painted the sky and the still water. 

Then he pushed himself off the ground, located his briefcase, and trudged to his apartment. 

Shiv came home after him, catching him as he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt at the foot of the bed. “Tom.” 

Her voice made him flinch, but he did his best to present a neutral face when he turned toward her. 

She stared at him. “What the fuck happened?” 

“Oh,” he said, forcing a smile. He tossed his shirt into the hamper and shrugged. “Just the normal rough-housing. New guy at Parks, you know.” 

Shiv gave him a skeptical side-eye, but dropped her head to her phone. Her fingers tapped against its surface as she replied, “That’s one hell of a rough house.” 

He tried to recapture her attention, wincing with an audible gasp when he poked his cheekbone, his eyes swiveling from his own face to Shiv’s in the mirror. When the first attempt yielded nothing, he tried again, this time touching his bruised ribs and releasing a breathy, pained “_Aah._” 

Shiv glanced up, but returned to her phone. She was already headed for the bathroom when she said, “There’s ice in the freezer.” 

Tom sighed. “Right. Thanks.” 

He slunk to the kitchen, crestfallen. Disappointed that she hadn’t rushed toward him. That she hadn’t examined him, offered him some kind of comfort--words, care, _ any_thing. 

No, instead she’d directed him to the freezer like some kind of domestic traffic cop. A pity fuck was too much to hope for, but a fucking band-aid? A little attention? Useless, sure. 

But it would have been better than nothing. 


End file.
